Action in the Early Morning

This could mean a couple of things, couldn't it? I leave it you to decide which it is:

Inexplicably, given I'm not seeing anyone, I somehow managed an early morning booty call.

Again, inexplicably, the thermos that my tea was in exploded, covering my hands, face, neck, chest and shirt with minute shards of silvery glass. Not to mention the floor, the counter and the coffee machine, all of which were nice and sparkly until I cleaned up.

L'aventure de toilette

There was a guy in the ladies room on the main floor today so I went to the second floor ladies. I was apparently the first of several women wanting to use the facilities, because once I was in the stall the outside door opened and two women walked in talking. One of them then said “Full! But I have to go so I suppose I’ll wait”.

Suppose? Is there a possibility that she’ll go where she stands, so to speak?

Just as I’m thinking that perhaps the second floor populated with diaper-wearing fetishishts, whoever is in the first stall says:

“Well who is in that one? I don’t recognize the shoes”. (This would make complete sense if I had been wearing the tri-colour shoes with the juggling frog on the toes, but I wasn’t) . What? Who remembers the footwear of EVERY WOMAN THEY WORK WITH? Crazy people, that’s who. Next time I’ll wait for the guy to leave out bathroom.

The dog was created especially for children. He is the god of frolic.

When the kids aren’t home the dogs usually sleep in my room. Usually. Sometimes, especially if the kids are gone for more than a few days, they tend to glare at me and sleep in the kid’s rooms. As if I needed to be reminded that my babies weren’t there! And if you think that dogs don’t glare you’re dangerously mistaken. It would be safer to know the difference between the big dog being happy to see you and asking to play, and being upset with you and wondering how much damage she can inflict before – if – you get away. I digress.

Lexi left my room at 10:30-ish. No big deal, she was probably going to sleep in M.’s room. I went to sleep. What with it being close to eleven and all. Did she return? Oh yes, belovèd, she did indeed.

I was having an absolutely scrumptious dream involving underground tunnels, swords and a talking bear when a very large, filthy and soaking wet something landed on me and the bed. For a second or two I thought something had happened in the battle for the tunnel and the bear was dead, but no, I was awake and there was Lexi: filthy muddy, soaking wet, exhausted and lying stretched out on my bed. Looking extremely pleased with herself, too, I might add. I got up and turned on the light and followed the destruction out of the room, down the hall and into the dining room. Where the back door was open. Wide open. Free entry into the fenceless yard. Lord knows how long she’d been gone (it was 3:30 in the morning) but she certainly checked out the house for intruders when she got back. I could tell from the muddy paw prints everywhere. Yes, everywhere. Ok, not quite everywhere but the places she missed (television screen, coats in the front hall, etc) were clearly the places she took a break from the destruction to shake off all the mud and rain on her coat. So the effect was the same as muddy paws everywhere. I swear I’m going to train her in moping floors tonight. Or maybe I’ll just use her as a mop.

For those of you - which may be just one - interested the quote in the title is Henry Beecher.

Truth in Repetition

After raving enthusiasm from my sister (yes, she was actually raving) about Saganaki*, I decided I would make it myself at home, to see if I liked it. I was hoping, a little bit, that I wouldn’t: it sounds delicious, something you might have as a last meal. Last, because it’s artery-clogging cheesiness is probably deadly.

So – most recipes suggest Kasseri as the cheese de choix. If that is unavailable, alternates would be Kashkaval, Manouri, Kefalograveria and Kefalotiri. See what Cheese-a-day will do for you? So on Friday I went to buy some Kasseri, at the Italian Star Deli on Victoria Avenue. Need I plug the great Ciabatta they have on the weekend? Didn’t think so. Anyway…Carlo recommended Kefalotiri, so we went with that. Made the dish, flaming alcohol and all – A. was thrilled, and we got it on film, just in case. Just in case we burned the house down which seemed like a reasonable possibility at the time.

It was pretty good, but A. didn’t like the lemon. And the cheese wasn’t as stringy as I had imagined.

Yesterday, M. and I went on a crazy trip to the east end. We hardly ever go there, so we stopped at a number of places that we see once in a blue moon: Michaels, Bath Goddess, Paderno, Bal Orient, etc. Since we were there we also went to the cheese shop, once again for cheese to try Saganaki again. M. had missed the whole kitchen-in-flames excitement, so I said we could do it again. Which we did. Film at eleven.

So in the store they had Kefalotiri, Kasseri and some packages labeled as “Saganaki”. I wondered what kind of cheese it was, so I went to the counter and said:

“I was looking for cheese for Saganaki, which is the name of a recipe, not a cheese. So what sort of cheese is this?”

“Generic cheese”.

“But…what kind? Is it goat’s milk, or sheep’s milk?”

“It’s cheese. Cheese cheese.”

Ah yes, that makes it all clear, doesn’t it? Cheese cheese. Silly me.

*saganaki[sah-gah-NAH-kee]A popular Greek appetizer in which 1/2-inch-thick slices of KASSERI CHEESE are fried in butter or olive oil. Saganaki is sprinkled with lemon juice (and sometimes fresh oregano) and served with PITA BREAD. Some Greek restaurants have a dramatic form of presentation: the cheese is first soaked in alcohol (such as BRANDY), then flambéed before being doused with lemon juice. Saganaki is generally served as an appetizer or first course.

Dancing with the stars. Au Naturel.

Spring equinox is tonight, 8:07 EDT. Try to find a moment for dancing in the buff.

You Can't Keep a Good Man Down.

Actually, yes you can. And good fun it is, too. :)
However, what I want to say is that I am inexplicably happy, almost all the time. I am happy even as I write this. Too happy, apparently, because a co-worker walking through my office took one look at me and said "what have you got to be so happy about?"

A billion things, actually. My question is, though, why do the cranky resent the happy? I'm cheerful. Get over it.

Someday was Friday

You know how you do things and you think to yourself "someday that is going to come back and bite me in the ass?" Well, someday was last Friday.

I have the unfortunate (but, I must say, usually spot on) habit of having nicknames for people. Mostly these names stay in my head. Not that they're mean, although it would hurt ickythickears feelings if he heard me call him that. And whilst I don't care about ITE himself, I am also not intentionally unkind to people. Even him. Mostly they're nice names, and some people know their names. Does Ky know I think of her as Superman's girlfriend? Probably not, but it is a compliment so that's ok.

I usually have nicknames to help me remember people's actual names. Sometimes that doesn't help: Ivan and Combover have the same first name, so while I remember what to call them I can't put their last names on a score sheet because I don't remember which is which. Some names stay VERY PRIVATE. His Holy Hotness, for instance, has never been identified. Fortunately he hardly ever appears so I don't often have a chance to mess up. And I do know his real name now too, so it's all good.

At work there is a woman - whom I've never met - that works in the same building but not in the same department. Not a clue who she is, but she smokes a number of cigarettes every day, and she always walks out the front door, over to the side of the building and smokes under the lovely tree outside my window. One of my windows, actually; my office is mainly glass. Anyway, she is crazy - I've seen her out there in -28 weather wearing an Indian cotton blourse and skirt, no coat - but to me she is simply Smoking lady.

On Friday I openend the door to the lobby just as she was coming in which startled her enough to make her gasp. To which I said "sorry smoking lady".

Well. There is nothing one can do at that point but nod and move on. No explanation is going to make that better. If I had to screw up on the whole nick name thing, though (and Lord knows I had to, it was a statistical inevitability) I'm glad it was Smoking Lady and not His Holy Hotness. Who would be perfect for Mayb, 'ceptin for the fact he's married. Dang.

Walking Excitement

Hmmm. That sounds like an ad for either a porn flick or an action movie. (Shouldn't they both be considered action movies?), but it isn't. It is about walking the dog.

I admit my dog needs to go to obedience school, and perhaps this summer she will. In the meantime, our walks tend to have moments of great excitement: other dogs, children with footballs, shrubs. The usual dog stuff. Yesterday, however, we upped the excitement level in a messy episode that brought me to my knees. And dragged me for a bit, too, as it happens. Today is garbage day>last night a lot of bins were already on the curb>some people overfill their bins>it was a very windy night> bins got knocked over>we came across a container on its side, garbage everywhere. And in that garbage, to the howling delight of the dog was a dirty diaper. Lexi?
Joy! Happiness - look, poopy mess, right here in the open. I'm going to grab it and I'll have so much fun and if you think THAT'S going to stop me you're so wrong because I'll just DRAG you to it and we'll both have fun and oh this is the best day of my life ever!

Me? I think if we'd found a sack of money I would have been almost as happy as she was over poop. Almost.

Ewww.

I take the stairs at work unless I am reading a particularly intersting book. I can read in the elevator, not on the stairs. Obviously.

So today, coming back from coffee I took the elevator. Only to discover, on the floor (in time to NOT step in it) a huge mucous-y blob of spit. With a goopy wad of gum beside it.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE???? Every single floor has a pair of bathrooms. And there is even the great outdoors is you feel absolutely compelled to spit in public. Ick ick ick.

The Other Hand

Shall we move to hand B? Right, here we go:
Sometimes you’re thinking of doing something risky. Or mayhap just something outside of your usual comfort zone. And you climb out of that box you’re in and do it. And then sixty years down the road there you are, old, friendless, petless, unhappy and living in an old box in a dark alley wondering what on earth possessed you. Why did you quit that job, rob that bank, ask that person out, buy that fur sink? The beginning of the logically inevitable downward spiral of despair that led you to this sad state of affairs started with that one stupid moment in time. You should have known that you weren’t meant to have a fur sink.

The Two Hands of Risk Taking

There are two bits of advice to think about when you’re contemplating taking a risk. Both equally valid, but diametrically opposed in execution. Because I want you to have lots of time to think about this, I’m going to review hand A today, and hand B tomorrow.

Hand A: So there’s something you want to do. Perhaps it is a bit risky or mayhap just bold. And you decide in the end to just pass up on whatever you’re thinking about. So there you are, fifty years on wondering why you never went camping in Pacific Rim National Park, bought that motorcycle or went skinny dipping at that Mexican resort. What a waste. And here you are ninety years old and you’ll never do any of them. What were you thinking? Should have done it when you had the chance.

It doesn't grow on trees.

There must be something other than bank robbing as a road to moolah. I'll buy a lottery ticket on the way home, but really -all that does is give me a half hour or so of daydreaming about what I'd do if I win. Do you think if I asked nicely someone like Bill Gates would just hand some money over? Because all the ways I can think of that would get me money now are illegal.

And now for your viewing pleasure a quick song and dance.

It seems totally unfair to me that when, at long last, I have a dream that turns into a full fledged movie style musical the main person isn’t me. It was, in fact, May-b. Not that it wasn’t fun – by the end of it the five of us (Ky, Lyn, Bron, Mel and myself) were twirling on chairs and dancing on desks. But it was Bron’s office, and her song. I’m pretty sure Bron and Mel having been in Vegas influenced the dream. But still - surely in my own dream life I should be the star, yes?

One woman, one house, five dogs and a very bad cold.

I have friends – yes, really – and they often come to the rescue in my perhaps somewhat overwrought life. And occasionally we come to their rescue. Not usually a rescue, though; more a polite request for assistance than a panicked cry for help. Regardless, we are quite happy to help.

The help is usually in the same form – watching puppies. They have one and if their dad is out of town then the have their one and his two. They’re small dogs, though, so three isn’t such a big deal. And since my boy is to be trusted, I had no problem saying that yes, he could spend Saturday night at their house while they tripped the light fantastic in Rosetown.

Well. Nothing, of course, ever goes to plan. And something came up for the kids that was sufficiently huge that I agreed they could spend the night at their dad’s house. Yes, I know we had agreed to puppy sit, but it was a very big deal. So: I, obviously, could go over and puppy sit. But…I have two dogs of my own. One a sweet but goofy looking dachshund/spaniel cross, the other a solid 110 pounds of bounding black lab muscle and goodwill. I couldn’t leave them alone just so someone else’s dogs aren’t alone – how is that fair?

I thought about bringing their three to my house, but I am fenceless in the back yard. Not to mention that the three dogs would then have new mom, new dogs and new surroundings. So in the end I did what any crazy person would do: I took my two over to their house.

The first minutes were pandemonium, but sufficiently short lived that I’m hoping there will be no noise complaints from neighbours. The crux of the madness was their three barking their little heads off, and my two running around in apparent accident prone ecstasy. I got my two into the back yard, settled their three, brought mine in, took theirs out and then got all of us settled indoors. And read the note that had been left about walks and food and similar things.

The walk notes went out the window. I took the dogs one at a time – mainly because my big one needs all the muscle I can muster to keep from being dragged down the street on my back like some bad western movie stunt, and because one of their dogs will walk home from the park with me but not to the park with me. So I carry her there and walk her back, much to the amusement of the neighbours.

I did get them all walked – and let me tell you, I’m counting the whole ridiculous circus of walking as a full work out – and we settled down for some TV. Except I couldn’t get anything but one tiny corner of the screen to work. So no television. I brought books, though – of course! – so I read one and then let them all outside again. The whole reading time they got along inasmuch as they weren’t growling at each other or barking like mad all over the place. I kept Lexi (she’s the big one) on a long leash. Now, this leash let her get all around the living room, but as long as she was on it the other dogs were fine. When I took her off it – which meant she had the SAME RANGE she did when it was on, the insane barking started all over again.

Nothing new under the sun

Whenever I do something that people think is totally crazy (no, do't bother telling me what I've done that you think makes me crazy), I like to remember that there is nothing new under the sun. Someone somewhere has done it, no matter what "it" is.

So the deli I bake for is closed for renovations. So for the first Saturday in like, ever, I don't have to get up at four-thrity in the morning. BUT...I am going to set my alarm for that, so when it goes off I can slam it off and say "not this time, baby, not this time". Which is crazy, but if I just sleep in, there is no sense of joy, of having won the alarm clock battle.

Who am I?

I have an ipod thingy. A shuffle, actually. The music on it ranges thusly:
Doris Day - Leon Redbone - Kate & Anna McGarrigle - Styx - Aerosmith - Hawksley Workman - Daft Punk - Fall Out Boy - Ram Jam - Delbert McClinton - John Hiatt. I can honestly and truly say my musical selection is eclectic. Or mentally unstable. Whichever.

I'm WHAT??

How can one take a test and after getting one single little question wrong be told that theresult was "adequate"? Is that how life works, you're either perfect or you're adequate? Totally sucks.

Pre-9 cloud o disaster

Before the clock had even managed to strike nine I had:
Fallen in mud/slush/snow
Gone home and changed
Taken my girl home from school which hadn't even started
Fallen again, not so much mud and no change needed
Arrived at work to discover that my pants were actually a bit more muddy than I thought
Skidded onto a median to avoid hitting an idiot in an SUV who seemed to feel that an SUV and testosterone are enough to keep your vehicle from slidding across the road
Brought shoes from yesterday in a Safeway bag to the office, leaving the Safeway bag with my lunch at the house

Now, there was on small silver lining to all of this. The SUV guy hit a lamp post. Ha!